An Eighth Shot of Espresso: Coffee and Creativity on Mum's Third Shift

Waters recede  after a flood  leaves debris  in its wake  a deadfall of logs  and branches  provide cover  for a family  of beavers  and food  for the soil what looks like a messy tangle of nature's refuse can be shelter after a terrible storm.

She dances  like a whirling dervish  endless motion with music in her head even though we do not hear it  every move precise  hands and feet together  graceful and wonderful  in her own unique way  she does not care  what the naysayers  think this is her best life

Who says that death  must lead to nothingness?  No one who stays dead  returns to tell us otherwise  Religion and science  offer some explanation  But the truth is that  no one can say for sure  Those who claim they know  really have no idea It is a reassurance against their fear of the unknown

cradle of boughs  hold the flimsy nest guarding it from harm  canopy of leaves  shield it from the sun  the wind and the rain  the sun sets and the moon rises days pass slowly the warmth of mother the chill of the morning children sleep soundly and in due time  the sound of the  eggs cracking open  and the chirps  of new life echo  the cycle renews again

Why do I write?  because the  harsh reality  can be so  overwhelming  in stories  we can find hope  in the struggle  between light and dark  good and evil  great heroes  and terrible villains  lovers and rivals we lost ourselves there and life doesn't seem  so bleak and doomed  as the naysayers believe

Forever  is a dreamer's word  the philosopher  never worries  about the rumble of his stomach  out of biting hunger or the dryness of a parched throat due to horrible thirst or the rainstorm soaking his paper or the frantic efforts of desperate survival but the common man  has no time  to muse about  the wonders the universe or the workings  of a so-called just society he worries about the NOW